


don't worry (it's supposed to hurt the first time)

by aromantic-eight (rbmifan), patrexes



Category: Marvel
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Dark Reign (Marvel), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Dehumanization, Genital Mutilation, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Medical Kink, Other, Poor Lab Hygiene, Snuff, Unreliable Narrator, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:57:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rbmifan/pseuds/aromantic-eight, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: He made the first incision slowly.





	don't worry (it's supposed to hurt the first time)

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely during Dark Reign, inasmuch as it’s been about five years since I’ve read Dark Reign and there might be some inconsistencies I don’t much care about. Comics are always inconsistent anyway. The most relevant aspects of adhered canon are thus: Victor keeps clones of Loki in his basement to torture [[x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/71dcf44dd055faf63c81d607759faa6e/tumblr_inline_pmfrciVJBm1rovn8y_540.png)] and explicitly wants her tied up at his mercy [[x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/9067e2fd15b1632e02ce8c4f2ec81a28/tumblr_inline_pmfrcqB3pU1rovn8y_540.png)]. Alien biology is inconsistent at best but iris color seems to vary, with a dark sclera [[x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/e40082dc1d4ce6b728cc1522a6f96577/tumblr_inline_pmfrduyxGU1rovn8y_540.png), [x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0dd196076dd96e57365d928b05ba8673/tumblr_inline_pmfrepFYZy1rovn8y_540.png), [x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/1f5a9c1455cb89cb6a1d802dacfcd3dc/tumblr_inline_pmfrdjOogc1rovn8y_540.png)], and Loki is noticably paler, and more... purple?... than other giants [[x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/c625352dbcaeb3e992d653700904cfeb/tumblr_inline_pmfrd5r7W61rovn8y_540.png)], but clearly outside the bounds of potential human skin tones [[x](https://66.media.tumblr.com/f53e8e2dd2279848df599a595c81c8e4/tumblr_inline_pmfrddjno81rovn8y_540.png)].
> 
> In addition to the tagged warnings, Doom’s POV has some pretty ice cold takes in it about sentience, sapience, the effect of isolation on development, and trans politics. It’s all pretty canon-typical, particularly post-TMT vol. 2 #85, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to read. There’s also reference to _klámhögg_ (lit. ‘foul hewing’), feminizing rape via knife which is described in _Bjarnar saga hítdælakappa_ , one of the Íslendingasögurnar, or family sagas—less of a warning, and more of a definition.
> 
> If you make it all the way through, comments are appreciated.

Victor von Doom was a patient man.

He was not a patient man by _nature_ , but there were things which instilled patience in a man by necessity—Doom was the ruler of a country and the de-facto leader of a group of supervillains (no matter Osborn’s delusions of grandeur and command of the so-called Void). Both of these roles required of him a certain degree of self-restraint. Forbearance.

It was wearing thin.

Loki—newly reborn and newly female, according to some definitions—had been staying in his castle for _weeks_ now, insisting that her dealings with the Cabal as well as with Balder were best dealt with from Latverian soil. This was not solely negative; the view, at least, Victor could appreciate. Privately, because Loki flaunted her presence in his castle with exposed skin and exaggerated cleavage that she clearly _aimed_ for him to appreciate, and Victor von Doom did not fall for such obvious ploys. Her availability, as well, gave Doom access to samples and other research materials he couldn’t dream of otherwise acquiring.

The negatives remained overwhelmingly numerous. Loki could maintain a veneer of pleasant company, perhaps, as long as one didn't mind being regarded as another one of her pawns. In his own castle, in the country that he ruled with an iron fist, Doom had no interest in his authority being tested and mocked.

And mocked he was, despite his every effort to impress upon her his power here. She had dismissed him at every turn. This evening had been the last straw: he'd made an idle comment on the more alien characteristics she hid from the world, and was then obliged to explain how he knew. He informed her of the cameras he'd installed in her room, insinuating that her illusions failed in her sleep. This was untrue, but she'd been too taken up with amusement to question him— _amusement!_ “Marvelous,” she’d told him, laughing. “I love being right.”

“You don’t feel violated,” Doom had noted; not a question, because it hadn’t come as a surprise. He doubted that whatever Loki was (and that certainly was not a _god_ ), it was a high enough lifeform to have the self-awareness necessary for a sense of violation. “I have seen something you’ve gone to great measure to hide from everyone.”

Loki, for her part, had scoffed. “The whole Asgardian court has seen that face, Victor. You aren’t special.” Then she’d smiled at him, her voice turning fond. “ _Do_ keep trying, though. It’s _precious_.” And that was the end of that. She’d carried on as if he’d never said anything at all, tearing into the meat on her plate with fingers and teeth like the beast she was.

And he had… allowed it. He had sat there, allowing her to treat him as though he were a child just learning to add numbers, because he was not yet ready to put her in her place.

Soon enough.

He entered one of the several personal laboratories in the underground chambers of his castle, locking the series of steel doors at its entry. This particular laboratory was a new addition. He'd had it specially built, to ensure there was no possible magical residue from the experiments with sorcery he inevitably performed in all his existing labs. Rows of tubes lined one wall, each 24 inches in diameter, each with an LCD monitor and a thick paper chart on the front at eye level, each containing a pale blue-skinned humanoid figure floating in a viscous perfluorocarbon compound.

Despite appearances, these creatures were Loki. Or, at least, were genetically identical. They lacked her _charming_ personality.

Doom lacked the time necessary to see these clones through a natural gestation period and maturation, but for a scientist of his calibre, artificially increasing the rate of growth—even tenfold—was child’s play. Bothering with clones at all would normally be more trouble than they were worth, but Loki remained, as always, an exception. He would endure many more inconveniences in order to gain mastery over the intoxicating power her body held. The mystery of her functional immortality remained unanswered, and Doom knew of no toxins or sedatives with any outstanding effect on her—certainly not for lack of trying.

He had a few mycotoxins he’d like to test today; he had injected phalloidin in the parenteral nutrient solution of one of the clones the evening before last, and unfortunately one of the side effects of lacking human intelligence and socialization was that it couldn’t tell him if it was _hungry_. It didn’t even know the concept. So, if its liver was failing, Doom would have to find out the old-fashioned way. He wondered if jaundice would turn its gums green.

He checked the monitors on the other clones, finding nothing irregular. One had a heightened heart rate, but it was also prone to anxiety. Not a concern. Its eyes stayed fixed on Doom as he rolled a segmented examination table across the room, locking it into place in the usual spot a few feet away from the wall of clones, underneath a collection of hooks hanging from the ceiling. The next part was always messy; there were limited options available for the storage of conscious, living creatures that kept them quiet and still. The method Doom had settled on had many advantages, but unfortunately made use of the drains installed in the floor whenever a clone was released. Doom pressed the release for the clone’s central venous line, then unlatched the seal on the tube’s base. Its contents splattered onto the floor: the dense, oxygenated perfluorocarbon going down the drain, and the limp clone coughing up more of the stuff. He couldn’t be sure without confirming in its chart, but this was likely the first time this specimen had ever been let out, its lungs as unprepared for the shock of air as a newborn.

It cried like one, as well. Doom lifted it up under the shoulders and knees and deposited it, dripping and naked, onto the examination table. He pressed a switch on the side of the table to release four reinforced straps near the top and maneuvered the creature’s weakly twitching arms into place before closing them securely around its upper arms and wrists. Then he merely had to fasten the legs into the table’s stirrups, remember to scrub the skin dry before attaching the disposable SpO2 sensor to its middle finger, and attach the monitor. Straightforward, really, once it was done. He didn’t know why he always thought of manual examinations as complicated. He hummed quietly to himself as he started arranging tools on a small tray, absently keeping time with the steady beep of the heart monitor, almost identical to the rhythm of a human’s heart, and high enough in pitch its oxygen saturation was within healthy parameters as well. Doom remained unsure whether the clones—and by extension, their ‘mother’—even needed oxygen; he hoped that continuous monitoring might clear up the question.

Doom pulled back one of the clone’s eyelids, positioning the overhead light with his other hand as he did. In a human, liver damage should be accompanied by yellow sclera due to the increased bilirubin in the bloodstream; in these creatures, the sclera was so heavily pigmented it was nearly black, the iris almost seeming to glow in comparison. Whether it was discolored, Doom couldn’t tell. He sighed, releasing the eyelid to pry back the clone’s lower lip—it was more likely the jaundice would show in its gums.

It immediately snapped at him, sharp teeth scraping on the metal of his gauntlet. How _base_. Truly, it was better than no other animal. Doom, for his part, could restrain his instinctive anger; he was not, however, inclined to put his hand in its mouth again. There were indents in the metal from its incisors.

No matter. If it wanted to lash out, it could deal with the consequences of its actions. And perhaps his frustration would find itself levied by the use of more... invasive methods.

Asgardians could not be easily made to part with their weapons, but Doom had managed, at great expense, to acquire a sword several years back. With the appropriate tools, he had melted the ore and recast it into an array of surgical implements capable of cutting into the flesh of a god; they should be more than capable of handling anything inside something like _Loki_. He selected a scalpel—the no. 10 blade—and used his free hand to pin the squirming creature to the examination table at the hip.

He made the first incision slowly, neatly, starting just above his own thumb at the thing’s pelvis and parting the tough skin all the way to its collarbone. A second cut on the same line split the layer of musculature. This had definitely been the correct choice: Doom had always found something therapeutic in the concentration a good dissection required—something viscerally satisfying about that neat red line just before the blood began to flow. He already found himself feeling calmer as he cut into the clone, peeling and pinning back its skin. The creature babbled in distress at what its body interpreted as noxious stimulus, jerking ineffectually in its restraints. He was a bit surprised that something with such a powerful healing factor experienced such acute nociception; he had to cut and pin the skin in sections, just to prevent it from beginning to fuse together again before he could lift it away. The clones were entirely reactionary creatures, almost _exaggeratedly_ so, clearly lacking a true understanding of anything they saw or felt, and having no inclination towards meaningful communication.

He found himself wondering what that said about Loki’s true nature—the one she hid using glamours and charms but that shone through all the same. It was apparent in more than just her refusal to use cutlery; it was her overdramatic, grandiose performances of emotion, her whorish preoccupation with the sensations of pain and pleasure, her erratic actions seemingly ruled by no greater logic than a need to discover the consequences she wrought, again and again and again. It seemed she was incapable of recognizing a simple pattern: attack the mighty Thor and be cut down, disrespect Doom’s authority and lose ever more privileges. Endlessly, she tested them; endlessly, she was confused at the result.

The clone’s struggles and vocalizations were as directionless as its progenitor’s plots, hips bucking uselessly against Doom’s firm hold as he curled two fingers underneath the thing’s sternum. With a quick movement, he snapped the hyaline cartilage holding the bone in place. Most people would need bolt cutters or similar to get through even a human’s rib cage, but Doom was not _most people_ , and mastery over humanity’s limitations was something he had achieved long since.

The disarticulation shocked a loud, keening cry out of the creature, the beeping heart monitor’s tempo increasing significantly. When Doom removed his other hand from its pelvis, it twisted itself all of an inch to the left, its thighs taut and shaking with the effort. It seemed to tire itself out in the time it took him to set the sternum aside on the tray at his back, going limp again on the table and watching Doom’s hands with rapt attention as they hovered over its chest. He pried apart the two sides of its rib cage.

This wouldn’t kill the clone. Doom had spent a great deal of time observing the speed and extent of Loki’s healing factor; this was barely a bit of rough handling. He had once seen Loki beheaded, only to put her severed head back on her neck and crack it with the nonchalance of the indestructible. Doom could, with little consequence, cut a sample of the clone’s liver and close its abdomen back up. The sternum would likely not regrow—Doom had put out the eyes of another clone a week past, and rather than regrow the organs its eyelids had fused shut—but the cartilage would reach across, joining to either side and effectively replacing it.

The limitations of this… he would hardly call an unconsciously governed ability a _skill_ , but found himself lacking a better word. The limitations of the _healing_ remained unclear; the point at which the lack of a particular organ or process could no longer be effectively compensated for, if there even _was_ an injury that did not wholly, permanently destroy some essential constituent that could lead to fatality. It was a fascinating question.

He had been quite conservative in previous tests of the creatures’ capacity to heal. It wouldn’t do to lose such a valuable resource ahead of schedule, after all. But then… advancement never came without risk. Doom selected a pair of surgical scissors from his tray of equipment, snipping through cartilage and other tissue before taking hold of the clone’s right eleventh rib and snapping it in half. All of the thoracic ribs were, unlike a human’s, connected to the sternum by cartilage. The lumbar ribs were short and fused to the vertebrae; not worth bothering with. They were barely noticeable but for the tips curling up to jut out beneath the skin when the clones were supine. The thoracic ribs were much more inconvenient, blocking most access to the heart and lungs even once they had been dislocated.

Going to set aside the partial rib, Doom realized that he’d left no space for samples. The bloodied sternum had already displaced some of the instruments on his tray. Sighing, he put the rib down beside the other bone and dragged a nearby steel table to sit beside him. He sterilized it, quickly put together a small ice bath, and then opened a new box of freezer bags. Oh, the mundane, unsung details of mad science. The sternum and snapped rib were each deposited in a bag and then sealed and put on ice; he could scrape the marrow out of them later. Waste not, want not, as the saying went.

This done, he returned to his work. The clone was still watching him with a blank expression, lifting its whole head to follow his movements around the lab. When Doom returned to its side with scissors in hand, its wide eyes met his own. Its gaze was unwavering when he cut through the cartilage of the next rib, though its gasp was ragged. It was only the break that had its eyes snap shut, throwing its head back against the exam table with a cry. Doom was able to find a rhythm with the next five ribs, as rather than keep up its _incessant_ staring, the thing had turned its face to the side and kept its body stiff save for a small flinch when each rib was snapped off, its heartbeat plateauing at a steady though fast speed. The sixth, however, found itself with a small technical difficulty: Doom’s gauntleted hand was slippery with blood, and he lost grip on his shears. The clone, though, flinched at nothing, in time with a compound fracture which hadn’t happened yet. The heart monitor somehow managed to get louder, an alarm shrilly informing him that the clone was _too stressed_. Useless thing. He knew that.

But the _source_ of the stress. Doom looked at the creature in newfound wonder. Perhaps, he admitted, he had been hasty in declaring these creatures without reason. This one had learned in only a few minutes to expect pain after he cut away tissue, even going so far as to anticipate when the pain would occur. The alarm continued, and he irritably punched the button to mute it. He was _thinking_. There might be hope for Loki after all; she _could_ learn, it only required a less… complicated script. He had been employing a variety of punishments, under the presumably mistaken impression she would be able to recognize them all as ‘punishment’; perhaps he would have more success with a single, defined consequence, applied universally. He found himself laughing—so much time spent on trying to deal with her, and the answer was that he had _overestimated_ her intelligence.

A loud noise from just outside his visual field had him looking up in alarm, half-expecting to find Loki at the door (he’d locked the door, he was _sure_ of it—he wasn’t _ready_ yet, she _couldn’t_ be here) but it was only the problem clone from before. It was banging its hands and forearms against its tank as it made jerky, irregular movements. Right. Doom had forgotten that he had an audience.

He supposed that it _was_ Loki, in a manner of speaking. Just a weaker, and thus more agreeable, Loki. It was ridiculous to panic like that; he’d begun taking a number of extra precautions against discovery since she’d taken up living with him. While the need for them was vexing, it was only a temporary situation, Soon enough, Loki could see as much of this laboratory as she wished. He’d give her a tour, perhaps.

He smiled at the thought. What would her face look like, he wondered, when she realized she couldn’t escape? He dreamed of it sometimes; watching that smug satisfaction dissolve into fear. Into _understanding_ of their respective places in the world.

As he kept at his work, he imagined it really _was_ her watching over his shoulder, only as weak, as powerless as any of these copies. She would pretend disinterest as she watched Doom remove ‘her’ ribs—as she _always_ did, as if she hadn’t _invited_ his interest in her—but she’d become visibly unnerved the fewer barriers between him and ‘her’ heart remained. His scalpel would cut as deeply and surely through her pretense as the flesh of her true form, and in watching him lay herself bare she would be forced to _finally_ afford him the respect he was due.

A pleasant image. He tucked the thought into a corner of his mind as he completed his work with the ribs, closing the last into its bag and placing it in the ice bath. Absently, he reached into the thoracic cavity, shifting one of the clone’s lungs to the side for a better look at the heart. The clone’s breath shuddered.

Doom was not a man prone to poeticism, but the delicate way its heart beat and its lungs filled was something he was tempted to call _magical_. It was so fundamentally different to cutting into a corpse; even the clone’s intestines—hardly a romanticized part of the body—coiling and shifting of their own accord as he began to lift them out of its body were in some way enthralling. They squirmed on the hooks as he hung them out of the way.

Intestines removed, some pooling became visible—not nearly as much as there might have been in a human, thanks to the speed at which the clone’s blood vessels closed, but worth turning on the suction pump all the same. The clone started twitching as soon as he began, turning its hips up as if that would make its _abdomen_ further away from the strange new noise and sensation. When he was finished, its eyes followed his left hand returning the suction tube to the machine rather than his right hand’s inspection of its abdominal cavity.

Most of the other organs in the creature’s body were not quite so easily recognizable. There was the liver, of course, located rather lower in the abdomen than in a human, and somewhat oddly shaped. Despite this, both lobes seemed… perfectly healthy. Not a trace of cirrhosis. Of course there wouldn’t be—he supposed he could cross phalloidin off his list.

He cut into it just in case, pinching it open with two fingers. Definitely no adverse effects, even 48 hours following what should have been _well_ over a fatal dose. He sighed and lifted the organ out of the way. Nestled beneath it were stranger organs of unclear purpose. The clones lacked anything recognizable as kidneys—he’d found no nephrons at all, in earlier biopsies—so he assumed at least one of the alien organs _somehow_ filtered the thing’s blood. He cupped one of them in his hands, pressing into the tissue with his thumbs curiously, as if that might tell him anything new. But all that happened was the clone offering up a _pathetic_ little whimper.

He spared a dismissive glance at its face. “If only you could tell me how you worked,” he mused.

It couldn’t, of course. Even if the thing could speak, it must not know even the first thing about its body. Doom doubted even Loki herself could answer—most likely she would give him the same dumb, confused expression her clone wore. The best he could expect was that at least _she_ wouldn’t _cry_.

The shiny tear tracks on the clone’s face were far from the only difference between the two; even _looking_ for similarities, it was difficult to find any, and the harsh overhead light certainly did the struggling creature no favors. Doom had known Loki presented to the world a face that was not her own—any fool could have told you as much—but it wasn’t until he was first able to artificially gestate her clones he had the slightest idea how completely she had changed herself. All of it, all of _her_ , was a farce (“a story”, she’d called herself once, as if stories were worth anything), and while she did a poor job acting civilized, the _costuming_ was inspired.

In place of Loki's pale skin, the creature in front of him was a sickly shade of blue with symmetrical, swirling patches of hyper-pigmentation on its bald skull he would have thought tattoos if the clones hadn’t been born in this laboratory. The gaunt features and wasted limbs were products of their storage method, of course, but its proportions seemed _off_ , somehow, and Doom suspected that even well-exercised none of them would quite attain the smooth perfection seen in every angle, dip, and curve of Loki's assumed body. He wondered if she still had the horns that curled above the creature's orbits, invisible and tucked into the matching shape of Loki's headpiece; if the soft breasts and cunt she showed off to taunt him even existed.

They _seemed_ real, but Loki was so lacking in sincerity—and Doom, though it pained him to admit, knew so little of the limitations of her magic—it was impossible to know. What he _did_ know was frustration. She made such a _show_ of herself, traipsing about his castle wearing little more than lingerie and half-exposed, daring him with every coy smile, every cock of her hip. Mocking him when he stared, as if she didn’t _want_ him to. When she pleasured herself in the room Doom had graciously provided for her, it was with her gaze locked on the hidden camera and a pornographic display clearly meant far more for his benefit than her own.

As if she had _accomplished_ anything with such a performance. She’d laid atop the bed in nothing but her skin, smooth legs half-bent and spread wide, exposing herself to him as she fucked herself open on her fingers with an exaggerated wantonness. As if arching into her own hand looked anything but ridiculous. As if she wasn’t _pathetic_ , moaning around fingers sticky with her own fluids for a man who wasn’t even in the room, wanting Doom’s attention so desperately she would debase herself for him and call it a goad. Like she was winning anything but his contempt, thinking she could tempt him to her level.

He imagined _her_ on his table in place of the weeping imitation. What would she look like when she finally won Doom’s attention, and realized too late she’d never truly wanted what it entailed? He would have her naked and vulnerable on the cold steel of the table, hands tied where they couldn’t get into any trouble, legs pinned open by _Doom’s_ will this time. Loki would be desperate for him, he thought, or rather, would _feign_ it, pretending as long as she could that this is what she’d wished he’d do to her. She’d arch into his scalpel like a lover’s caress, bite back a scream as he peeled back her skin to moan for him instead. The weight of her displaced breasts would be enough to keep her rib cage exposed, and, gasping and taut, Loki would pretend the shaking in her voice was desire and beg him to touch her.

Instead, he would break her ribs, one by one, until he was looking down upon her ruined chest, watching her fragile lungs work to draw in desperate, shuddering breath with nothing to protect them. _This_ was the kind of intimacy Doom actually wanted; Loki stripped down to her component parts, the parts of her she would never allow him to see laid bare for his perusal. And peruse them he did, examining the inner workings that were, to Doom, already so familiar. As he worked, he would explain to her what he’d discovered about each of the organs he traced with his fingers, secrets she herself had never known. And gradually, Loki’s smile would fall, as she realized the extent of his mastery over her; how profoundly she had underestimated him when she’d dismissed him out of hand. _You’re not special, Victor_. When he was, in the end, the one person who would do what all of Asgard had failed to. When he would finally bring her to heel. 

Doom realized with a flash of irritation that he was aroused. A natural response of the body to excitement or anticipation, of course, and it had been some time since he had relieved himself of this particular need. He should not be so surprised that thinking of a goal he’d worked for so passionately might trigger a response. Nevertheless, that knowledge did nothing to diffuse the feeling. Such base, hormone-driven reactions were beneath him.

This was Loki’s fault. He would not even be _conflicted_ over such a trivial bodily response if it wasn’t for _her_ assigning such weight to it. Doom refused to play along. He caught his gauntleted hand between his chest and other arm, pinning it still to release his hand from the armor. Fury settling into his belly along with the arousal, he freed his erection from his pants, stroking himself firmly. The day Doom could finally put Loki in her place _could not_ come soon enough.

And meanwhile, he was stuck with these mindless, faulty imitations. He was supposed to be _farther_ by now. He should have _her_ on that table, struggling and helpless to stand against him, spitting with rage. Doom wanted Loki proud and unafraid, so he could teach her humility and fear.

These creatures were barely alive, barely _anything_. The clone on the exam table shivered, peering up at Doom out of the corner of its eye, and in that moment, he _hated_ it. Hated that it was so _useless_ and _stupid_.

(Hated that it wasn’t Loki.)

Doom made his way around the examination table, picking up a scalpel from the tray with his free hand. The thumb of the other hand played over the head of his cock as he came to stand between the stirrups the clone’s legs were strapped into. It watched him blankly, its face slack and lips parted, the expression so unlike anything he had ever seen on its counterpart’s face.

But if he tried, he _could_ imagine it. There would be beauty in her face, if she were broken. One day, when he had wrung all of her secrets out of her, used up everything worthwhile, she wouldn’t need to be anything but pliant. And once she was, he could do what he liked with her, not because she had coaxed him into it but because it was his right and his _due_ and she couldn’t stop him.

Stroking his cock between the clone’s thighs, Doom could nearly envision her beneath him ( _in her proper place_ ), pinned open, made hollow. He could fuck her with her heart in his hand, intimately feel the fear she would never show on her face. He could spend over her ruined body, close her back up with his come staining her viscera. The thing’s gaunt features, the sickly cyanotic color of its skin, its hopeless affect—all these were things Doom could appreciate if he only looked far enough into the future. Even the one thing Doom didn’t care to make fit could easily enough be _fixed_.

Doom let go of his cock to roughly take hold of the clone’s testes and flaccid penis, pulling at them to provide the needed tension to cut through both with the scalpel in his other hand. The clone _screamed_ , jerking in its restraints with its eyes screwed shut, and though Doom ought to put the severed organs in a bag, he only threw them towards the biohazard bin, where they landed instead in a bloody mess on the concrete.

That had been… oddly satisfying, and Doom looked the clone over again with some composure regained. Nothing was truly irreparable, he told himself, absently smearing the creature’s blood on his fingers. The clone’s groin was almost shredded, and its skin was clammy and pale from the blood loss, but given the opportunity, it would heal. As Loki would heal, if she still retained that anatomy in her body’s true form.

It was already clotting. Doom watched the skin begin to knit back together; let alone, it would leave only dried blood on unbroken skin as evidence of what he’d done. He considered the creature’s exposed chest, pried open and unable to heal; thought of a comment made by one of the Asgardians in unhappy alliance with Loki when last he’d had the misfortune to meet with them—

_“Lord Balder would have us trust you, when in your rebirth you were foully hewn by the Universe itself,” spoken by a blond warrior with a meaningful glance, and met with laughter._

_“Yes, certainly; Those Who Sit Above in Shadow fought amongst themselves over who might wield the blade.” Loki’s grin was sharp, and she rolled her eyes once they’d met Doom’s own. “He is insinuating,” she confided with good humor and sharp consonants, “the gash between my legs was cut to show my base, vile nature.”_

—and Doom considered further. He pressed two fingers of his gauntleted hand into the lower of the two wounds, breaking through the newly-formed clot. The clone writhed around the intrusion, a high-pitched wail forced from its throat. Fresh blood spilled out past Doom’s fingers, the clone’s body accepting the relentless press of his fingers more easily than he expected—as if it had been made for this purpose after all, even as the wasted muscles of its thighs shook as it struggled weakly against him.

As before, the resistance barely lasted before the clone accepted its fate, going still with exhaustion by the time Doom thought to reach over it to retrieve a steel retractor from his tray of instruments. The retractor in place, prying apart the wound’s ruined edges, it was almost as if the thing _did_ have a cunt.

He fucked the newly made hole with his fingers, joints of his gauntlet catching on the flesh and sticky with the quickly-clotting blood. His other hand went back to his cock. As he stroked himself back to full hardness the still-wet blood on his fingers stained his cock red, and the sensation was… not unpleasant. It gave a measure of friction to the slide of his palm over sensitive skin which considerably improved the experience. He timed his strokes to the pace of the thrusts of his fingers inside the clone. The hole was necessarily limited by the size of the retractor holding it open. The metal only extended an inch or two into the wound, and if stretched too far it would simply fall out, but Doom was able to press in his thumb alongside the two fingers without disturbing it.

The remaining two, he forced into its ass, dry and abrupt. The clone barely reacted to the violation, limp and motionless even when he felt the hinges of his knuckles catch on the way out, and there was fresh blood on the metal. The lack of resistance felt… wrong, somehow. Too easy. Loki would be fighting him, would clench around his fingers like he’d give up at the first sign of difficulty, like she didn’t want him at all.

No, Doom reminded himself. _Now,_ Loki would fight him. One day, though, she would lie still and take what he gave her without complaint—no matter how humiliating, how degrading, how painful. The ultimate victory.

Only it wasn’t. Even as he allowed the thought, hand twisting on his cock, he could hear low laughter. The body around him pulsed, lungs shuddering in the open rib cage, and Doom felt his carefully constructed image of a beaten Loki dissolve like sand through his fingers. Now all he could picture was her smirk as she said, voice uneven through her laughter, “You want so _badly_ to be my master. There _is_ such a thing, dear Victor, as trying too hard.”

He jerked backwards, hands coming up in front of him, angry with himself for doing so even as he was retreating. Letting Loki get under his skin. She wasn’t even _here_ and she still had the upper hand.

She was _nothing_ compared to Doom.

Furious, he wrenched the surgical retractor out of the clone’s body, ignoring the wet, tearing sound it made as it pulled free from tissue that had healed around and _through_ the open spaces in the metal. The creature shrieked, head jerking up, its tears glinting under the overhead light.

Oh. The sound Doom had heard had not been laughter, but sobs.

He glanced at the retractor in his hand, still coated with torn, newly-regrown flesh, and tossed it on the floor in disgust. The clone’s sobs began again, loud and grating, its whole body shaking with them, and why wouldn’t it just _shut up?_

Doom retrieved his scalpel, going around to the clone’s side, roughly taking its jaw in hand to angle its head back and keep it still as he brought the scalpel up with his other hand. Carefully lining up the blade, he sliced in and down through the vocal cords, then repeated the process on the other side of its neck. The clone’s cries choked off into breathy gasps, warm on his palm.

Much better. Letting go of its face, Doom let out a sigh and stroked himself a few times experimentally. What had started as an attempt to quickly let off steam was becoming quite the ordeal. Perhaps now he could get himself off in _peace._ A shame he couldn’t trust its teeth, or else Doom would fuck its throat rather than use his own hand. Yet another indignity he had to endure, even though by all rights he _deserved_ its mouth after everything it had put him through tonight.

Blood bubbled up from the incisions in the clone’s throat as it wheezed; Doom had accidentally nicked the trachea in slitting the thing’s vocal cords, leaving it to aspirate its own blood as it tried fruitlessly to cry out. It would heal, in time, likely with no ill effects on the clone at all. He could do much worse, if he so wished, even slit its throat entirely. See firsthand what had happened when Loki had been beheaded. He watched the creature struggle to breathe for a moment longer, palming himself, and allowed himself to entertain a sudden perverse notion.

Strictly speaking, Doom didn’t require use of the thing’s _mouth_. He took its jaw in hand again and sliced through the trachea and musculature, but leaving its spinal column intact; its head, now only half on, lolled, its panicked breath now coming through the gaping hole in its throat. Doom dropped the hinge on the section of the exam table beneath its head, letting both fall nearly perpendicular to its body.

If he liked, Doom could rationalize this as an experiment. In a way, he supposed, it would be: he would be seeing if, and how long, the clone could survive without air. But at this point, it was a far cry from his primary goal.

No matter; many achievements were made in the pursuit of other than knowledge. He positioned himself over the clone’s limp head, stroking his cock a few times more, and then pressed in.

The sensation was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The trachea was tight, ribbed with hyaline cartilage that kept it from losing its shape, and as he fucked it, it sucked him in deeper, the clone’s lungs desperately trying to take in a breath. In its chest, the clone’s heart beat hummingbird-fast, easily surpassing 200 BPM, and Doom found himself simultaneously thankful and irritated he’d muted the heart monitor so early. He left his gauntleted hand at the clone’s clavicle, keeping it still on the table, and let his bare hand caress the fragile organ. At this rate, it might induce cardiac arrest.

Wouldn’t that be… educational. He shifted so he was cradling the heart in his hand, and he felt it when the heart’s beat started to become less regular, straining against the lack of oxygen, an unsteady counterpart to the sweet pressure against his cock. He set the heart down regretfully, and then he found his hand wandering up to explore the trachea. When he looked down at it, he could _see_ his cock straining against the more flexible tissue, and _feel_ it around his cock when he pressed down on it with the pad of his thumb. He quickly wrapped his hand around it, stroking himself roughly through its throat. The motion of his hand competed with the sucking sensation, and Doom let out a shuddering breath of his own as the cartilage in the trachea cracked in his grip.

The clone’s fingers clawed desperately at the table, wrists twisting desperately in its bonds as it was still denied air. It had been choking for several minutes now, and it was still struggling, with no signs yet of losing consciousness. The tendons in its hands and wrists bulged beneath its skin, and Doom found himself imagining peeling back the skin to see them bare. He could remove _all_ of its skin, replace sickly blue with bloody red and discover what grew back where there was no more skin. See if its body was clever enough to grow more, or if it would only repair broken blood vessels and leave the clone raw muscle and sinew.

He imagined doing that to _Loki_ , and his hand squeezed around his cock as his orgasm hit with unexpected force. He palmed himself through it, the clone still weakly struggling beneath him, and then he let his hand slip from the fractured trachea, leaning into the clone’s body to catch his breath. His hand hit a small bulge, which _gave_ under the weight, cracking like an egg, a gritty, soft texture squishing between his fingers. The clone’s whole body jerked in the restraints, and its exposed heart suddenly stopped.

Its brainstem, he realized, bringing his hand up to examine the remains of it. Fascinating that it would be housed beneath the breastbone; Doom supposed he had an answer for how Loki could survive a beheading, now. He stepped back from the corpse, dislodging his cock from its throat. Blood dripped slowly from the corpse’s slack lips to the floor, and the semen dangling from the ragged edge of its trachea was tinged pink. The clone was… only nominally in one piece. Its intestines still hung undisturbed from hooks above it, but the head was straining badly against the small amount of tissue holding it to the neck. Blood was clotting in unsightly lumps over the mangled remains of the creature’s groin. The thought that it would most likely still be alive, had Doom not crushed its brainstem, was astounding.

What a _mess_. Tucking himself back into his pants, he turned to finish labeling the samples he’d collected before everything got so… unhygienic, stacking them in the freezer before calling down a Doombot to finish the work of cleaning up. He retrieved his second gauntlet and tucked it under one arm rather than putting it back on his bloody hand. A shower was in order. A proper one, with decent water pressure and temperature rather than the utilitarian chemical shower installed in the basement.

He considered taking a more out of the way route, perhaps to the bathroom in the old servant’s quarters, and then chided himself. Why should he skulk around in his own castle? He’d done nothing his quarry would deem _suspicious_ , should he run into her on the way; she sometimes came to _dinner_ with fresh blood on her hands and nary an explanation for why she felt the need to drip on the mahogany.

 _Speak of the devil, and she shall appear._ Loki was lounging on the main staircase when Doom made his way up to his suite. She looked him up and down, slowly, tilting her head in exaggerated curiosity at his bare, bloody hand, and then she delicately raised one eyebrow and said, “Did you have a nice time?”

Doom brushed past her without even sparing her a glance.

"Well, all right," she said, clearly put off, like she was _entitled_ to a response. Like she deserved his courtesy.

 _Patience_ , he told himself.

His time would come.


End file.
